


Battle of the Beverages

by triste



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triste/pseuds/triste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, um, how are things? You seem fairly homicidal. Is it safe to be around you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of the Beverages

Title: Battle of the Beverages  
Author: Triste  
Fandom: Hetalia  
Pairing: America/England  
Rating: PG  
Status: Complete  
Disclaimer: Not mine

~~

America was smirking. England said nothing at first, refusing to let himself be baited, but America’s smug ‘I know something you don’t’ expression was so irritating he just had to speak.

“Right,” he said, setting his cup down carefully onto its saucer. “Out with it. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” America replied innocently. “Nothing at all.”

“It has to be something.” England's patience was wearing thin. “You wouldn’t be sitting there laughing at me otherwise.”

Surprisingly, America chose to give a straight answer instead of taunting him further. “That’s your fifth cup of tea today, you know.”

“So what?”

“How many do you usually drink?”

“I don’t exactly keep count,” England said, cautious. “In any case, tea is infinitely healthier than those fizzy drinks you’re forever guzzling. It also counts as part of your daily fluid intake. Everyone needs to drink at least one litre of water a day. Tea can contribute towards that.”

“Tell the truth,” America teased. “You’re addicted to the stuff. You couldn’t live without it. You’d lapse into a state of catatonic schizophrenia after just one day.”

“I would not,” England protested, deeply offended. “If anyone would have difficulty giving up their beloved beverages it would be you.”

“Me?” America flashed the victory sign. “I could quit drinking soda anytime I wanted to. No problem. Piece of cake. Tell you what,” he added, leaning over the table and invading England’s personal space the way he knew he hated so much, “Let’s bet on it. Whoever manages to last a whole week of going without their favourite drink wins. The loser has to go through with a punishment game. How does that sound?”

England's interest was piqued. “What kind of punishment game?”

“That’s for the winner to decide. The loser could be forced to dress up in some stupid costume. He could be forced into being the winner’s servant for a day. Whatever the winner wants, he gets. Agreed?”

England thought about it for a moment. Having to make do without any tea whatsoever for a full seven days would be far from easy. Then again, the idea of being able to make America do whatever he liked if he emerged victorious was definitely tempting. America would be forbidden from insulting or annoying him. On top of that, England would be free to make as many outrageous demands as he wanted.

“All right,” he agreed. “You’re on.”

~~

Their contest began the day after. England’s phone rang exactly five minutes before 8AM, the time they’d both agreed to commence the countdown.

“You ready?” America wanted to know.

“Of course,” England replied. “Are you?”

“Hell yeah! I was up all night drinking enough soda to tide me over for the next seven days. I kept having to wake up to pee, but it was worth it. This way, I’m totally going to win. Scared yet?”

“Hardly.”

England couldn’t help feeling dismayed over how depressingly similar his and America’s way of thinking was, though. He’d done the same thing himself, drinking tea until the early hours in order to commit the taste to memory, thus making living without it for the rest of the week that much easier.

“Well, whatever,” America chuckled. “I’ve already decided what you’ll have to do for me when I win. I’m going to make you wear a maid’s outfit and serve me soda all day long. You’ll have to call me ‘master’ and everything. Awesome, huh?”

England felt cold inside. Going without tea for a week would be bad enough. Having to dress up as a woman and obey America’s every single whim would undoubtedly be hell on earth.

“*If* you win,” he corrected, wiping the horrific mental images that had sprung to mind and concentrating on remaining calm and focused. “That confidence of yours is as unfounded as always.”

“You’re just trying to psych me out,” America retorted. “Nice try, but it’s not going to work. Still, you’re resorting to petty tactics so soon. That’s a good sign. We haven’t even started yet and already you’re caving.”

“I most certainly am not.” England glanced at the clock. “Less than half a minute left, by the way. You may be my enemy, but I wish you luck regardless. I am, after all, a gentleman.”

“Sure,” America said. “Best of British and all that.”

England watched the seconds ticking away. “It’s time,” he said at last. “I’m hanging up.”

“Got it. I’ll see you later to check how your withdrawal symptoms are coming along. Try to hang in there until then.”

Typical America. He had to get in a parting shot before England could put the phone down.

~~

The problem, England reminded himself, was that despite being an early riser, he was not a morning person. He simply couldn’t function without his first cup of tea of the day. More than the actual tea, what England really missed was the ritual of making it. There were other things besides, such as accompanying said beverage with a nice biscuit. The only way England had ever gotten America to drink tea instead of coffee had been to bribe him with biscuits. He could easily polish off a whole packet of chocolate digestives all by himself. In fact, he probably enjoyed the biscuits far more than he enjoyed the tea, but that was America through and through.

Attempting to find a suitable substitute in the meantime was far from easy. England didn’t think he could stand anything sweet so soon in the day, so hot chocolate was out. He refused to drink coffee because, well, that was America’s preference. The only thing left was fruit juice. It just didn’t feel right, sitting down at the table to read the daily paper while sipping orange. It was pure orange, not the dilute version or the carbonated kind. It was slightly strong and bitter for England’s taste, but he tried to focus on that rather than the way his right hand kept twitching occasionally whenever he turned the page.

A distraction was in order, England decided, something to take his mind entirely off tea. Staying in the kitchen wasn’t going to help anything, especially when the teabags were in such easy reach. America would never let him live it down if he couldn’t even go without tea for even one hour, let alone one day.

And so, he kept himself occupied by doing a spot of gardening. After that came paperwork. Once he’d finished sorting that out it was time for lunch, which brought him right back where he’d started: the kitchen.

England steadfastly ignored the cupboard where he stored his teabags. Instead, he poured a glass of lemonade and prepared himself some sandwiches. Cucumber made him think of America, who hated it with a passion, and thinking of America made him think of tea. In the end, he went with watercress. There was no point wondering what America would be eating for his lunch. Burgers were his only sustenance, or so it seemed. Then again, this could also be used to England’s advantage. America always had some sort of fizzy drink to go with his burgers. There was no chance he would ever replace it with something as plain and healthy as water.

That, England thought gleefully, was when America would really start finding it tough. He had no willpower whatsoever. He’d never been able to outperform England in the stubbornness department.

England didn’t know what he’d been so worried about. The one to win would be him! And when he did, England would make him sorry he’d ever implied any dependence on tea. He most definitely would not make him dress up in a maid outfit, however. The mere mental image of America wearing something so absurd was only marginally less traumatising than the idea of someone like Russia wearing it. And he would, England knew, if only to make people’s eyes bleed in sheer horror.

England shook his head firmly to clear away any and all unwelcome thoughts before steering his mind back to the matter at hand. There was no point participating in their contest if it didn’t mean gaining the right to gloat afterwards. England always played to win no matter what the challenge.

The first thing he would do upon emerging victorious would be to force America to return to the proper, British way of spelling England had taught him as a child. There would be no more of that bastardised, Americanised spelling, the kind where the letter s was replaced with a z, or where the u had been dropped altogether. He would also work on America’s manners, or lack thereof. His atrocious dress sense would be cured by a decent makeover. He would make America change his opinion on British soap operas and show him they were not as boring and depressing as he seemed to think. In any case, they were certainly better than the kind of trash programmes produced by Australia, not that England watched them religiously for comparison and mocking purposes or anything.

~~

America called again the following morning at the same time he had the previous day. England was still in bed when he reached out blindly and groped for the telephone.

“Fsgdrr?” he said.

“Hello to you, too,” America replied, his voice annoyingly bright and cheerful. “I take it you’re regretting participating in this competition?”

England pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes as he attempted to form a coherent response. “What do you want? You haven’t won yet, if that’s what you’re wondering. Don’t be so cocky, you smarmy little git.”

America whistled. “Someone sure is snappy. The lack of tea must be getting to you, huh?”

“It is not,” England lied. “I’m doing perfectly well, thanks very much. How about you?”

“Me? I’m just great! Going through cold turkey yesterday was tough, but I think I’m over the worst now. I made sure to drink lots and lots of water to make up for it. Maybe that’s why I felt so refreshed when I woke up.”

He’s lying, England told himself. He’s lying and he's trying to intimidate you. Don’t fall for his tricks.

“That’s... nice,” he said, cursing mentally over leaving such an awkward pause. America had been right. The lack of tea really was beginning to affect him. His brain didn’t seem to be working the way he wanted. Not that he would admit to any of it, of course.

America snickered. “You’re sounding a lot less intelligent than usual. And you’ve been sleeping in late. Shouldn’t you have been up at the crack of dawn?”

“I can wake whenever I like. I’m merely being leisurely. There is nothing that requires my immediate attention.”

“You mean you’re not breaking out in a cold sweat over being denied your usual fix?” America asked innocently. “It’s okay. Only start getting worried when the teabags start calling for you. It won’t be much longer before you’ll be able to hear their voices. Just try not to go too insane. I wouldn’t want my maid to be a dribbling idiot. That’d really embarrass me when you wait on me at the next meeting. The servant’s behaviour is supposed to reflect on the master, right? You’d better not show me up in front of the others.”

“What was that?” England said sharply. “I thought I heard the words ‘wait on’ and ‘meeting’.”

“What’s the point in winning this bet if I don’t get to show you off my prize? I have to crank up the humiliation factor to maximum, otherwise it won’t be as fun.”

“No,” England said vehemently. “No, no, and no. I refuse. There is no way I’ll go through with any of that.”

“That’s what’s waiting for when you lose,” America sang.

“*If*,” England said, his anxiety growing. “*If* I lose.”

America laughed. England hung up on him.

~~

The situation was become desperate, as was England. Three days in and he was gagging for a cuppa. America, on the other hand, didn’t appear to be suffering in the slightest.

“I feel better now than I’ve ever done,” he exclaimed when he came over to visit. “Quitting soda has changed my life. People are starting to comment that I’m not as hyper as I used to be. It’s like I’ve calmed down some, you know? I’m even cutting back on the burgers. I’ve started eating those subway sandwiches in their place.”

“That’s wonderful,” England growled. “Absolutely smashing.”

America cringed under his glare. “So, um, how are things? You seem fairly homicidal. Is it safe to be around you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” England said tightly. “Of course it’s safe.”

“I noticed you stabbing trees outside in the garden earlier,” America ventured.

“Sword practise. I can’t allow my skills go to waste.” Even so, America maintained a safe distance. It only served to annoy England further. “I am not going to attack you! Stop looking at me like I’m deranged!”

“Chill out. You’re kind of scaring me. Your right hand won’t stop twitching, by the way. And you’ve got big dark circles under your eyes. Are you sure you’re not going to do anything dangerous?”

England gave a jerky nod. “I’m quite positive. You shouldn’t be so worried.”

America laughed nervously. “I’m worried.”

~~

On the fourth day England gave in. He’d stayed awake through the night thinking about tea, imagining its smell and taste. He hadn’t had any proper sleep since the first day of his and America’s bet. That, along with the absence of tea, had been slowly and steadily unhinging him.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t win.

England cursed. It was like the war of independence all over again, but worse because of the tea withdrawal. He had been so confident his stubbornness would carry him through, but it had failed him. He had failed. Even his fairy friends couldn’t console him. They kept telling him to cheer up, that it wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be, but England wouldn’t listen. He made sure to drown his sorrows before making the inevitable phone call. Eight cups of tea in rapid succession couldn’t do anything to lighten his mood, but at least his hand had stopped twitching now.

England wondered if he ought to try bathing in tea, just to get used to being with it again after spending so long without it. That would freak America out for sure. No wonder he’d been staring at England lately like he was one of the machete-wielding maniacs from those slasher films he was so terrified of.

“Congratulations,” he said dully into the phone after America had picked up. “You are victorious.”

~~

It was embarrassing. And uncomfortable. And frilly. And about a million other things on top of that.

“Knickers,” England said, tugging down the hem of his skirt self-consciously. “You’re making me wear *knickers*.”

“I know, isn’t it great?” America was positively sparkling with joy. “It makes the whole get-up that much more authentic, you know?”

“Authentic,” England echoed flatly. “Right.”

America opened the door to the meeting room for him, gesturing grandly for England to enter first. “After you.”

England scowled. He was determined to make the most dignified entrance he could muster, maid outfit or not. He was a gentleman. A former pirate gentleman, yes, but a gentleman nevertheless. It mattered little that he happened to be dressed in lady’s attire.

France’s reaction was obvious and expected. The only surprise was that he didn’t immediately lunge for England the second he walked through the door.

“Am I dreaming? Is this really the friendless England I see before me? And dressed so uncharacteristically attractively?”

“Get stuffed, you frog,” England snarled. The insult went unnoticed by France, who was practically foaming at the mouth. His fingers were flexing in anticipation, presumably in preparation for groping with. England took a step back, fight or flight responses kicking in. The assault he’d been waiting for came not from his front but from behind when Greece lifted up his skirt for a peek.

“Polka dots,” he noted. “That’s disappointing. Kitty print would have been cuter.”

“No, no,” France argued. “They should have my flag on them since he’s already wearing my traditional erotica clothing!”

“Pumpkin panties!” Italy piped up. “Pumpkin panties are best!”

Japan raised his hand, apparently about to say something, but then changed his mind and stayed silent. His face was very red as he stared at England. His expression wasn’t lecherous like France’s, but more shyly appreciative.

Thankfully the person who came to England’s rescue was Germany. He slammed his hands onto the table in order to gain everyone’s attention, his face as irate as ever whenever their meetings failed to proceed in an orderly and functional manner. “All of you be quiet!” he barked. “We’re here to discuss important world issues, not underwear! England, America, take your seats. Everyone else, settle down!”

England pulled out his chair, fuming, but America beckoned him over to where he was sitting instead.

“Over here,” he said. “You can’t be at my beck and call if you’re at the other side of the room. Oh, and pour me some coffee. I’m thirsty.”

England ground his teeth, closed his eyes and counted to ten slowly inside his head before doing as America had ordered and filling his cup. “Here.” He shoved it under America’s nose, with bad grace.

“Here what?” America prompted.

“Here, bastard,” England spat out.

“Here, *master*. Have you forgotten how to address me? Go on, say it.”

All eyes were on England. The only sound in the room was France’s rabid panting. England steeled himself, fixing America with his fiercest glare. “Master,” he said venomously.

“What is this?” France stammered. “Did one of your black magic spells backfire on you? Have you been brainwashed by aliens?”

“He lost a bet,” America said casually. “It’s his punishment game.”

“I approve. I approve one hundred per cent.” France stood up and held out his arms. “Come here, England! Accept your big brother’s punishment! Lie on my lap so I can give you a good spanking!”

“Whoa there,” America cautioned. “This is just between us. Move any closer and I’ll take it as an act of war against America.”

“That’s insane! Not to mention completely unfair. Share your spoils with us!”

The meeting room wasn’t that far up. England was sure he could jump out of the nearest window and escape with nothing more than a sprained ankle. Even a broken bone would be better than having to put up with being leered at and made fun of.

America tugged him down so he could whisper into his ear. “It’s okay. I’ll protect you from any perverts.”

“You should talk!” England hissed. “You’re the biggest pervert of the lot!”

“Hey,” America protested. “I haven’t even got you home yet. The best part is still to come.”

England narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Best part?”

America answered with a predatory grin.

 

End.


End file.
